White Dragon
by DispiritedAway
Summary: "There was a thin strip of powder expertly formed on her kitchen counter. She always did this before a line; thinking about her life, beating herself up until she felt like cocaine was her only reprieve." Faberry.
1. Prologue

**White Dragon: Prologue**

* * *

_I think this is full of spies_

_I think they're onto me_

_Didn't anybody, didn't anybody tell you?_

_Didn't anybody tell you how to gracefully disappear in a room__?_

* * *

"3AM" was what the clock said to her. She sighed; not now, not yet.

She was in her kitchen brewing a batch of chamomile tea that would last her through another hour, then ultimately put her to sleep. It had been like this every night since she'd started her holiday break, and each night she'd stay up a little later than the last.

She was a nocturnal creature, something she'd learned in her twenty-first year of life. She was twenty-three now, and truthfully, she felt a lot older than that.

Lucy poured herself a mug of the tea and took a modest sip without bothering to blow at the steam. She closed her eyes, savored the burn. Taking a seat at her work desk, she pulled down the piece of paper tacked to the board hanging above it. On the paper she'd started a letter, and a year later it was still incomplete.

She'd started it on the tenth of July last year, and decided she wouldn't touch it again for another year, to be sure she even wanted to finish it. Too many times she'd done things on impulse, and each time those things had ended up unfavorable for her. She wanted to do this right, if at all.

Lucy had to take another swallow of the scalding hot tea before she started rereading the letter, because she thought the sting of it might take away the sting of the feelings the letter was bound to bring back up.

She breathed, quivered, ran her hair through her brown hair, chewed at her thumbnail.

_Dear Rachel..._

* * *

Rachel sat alone in her one-bedroom, one-bathroom apartment and stared out her window at the nighttime New York City lights. Once, those lights would have thrilled and inspired her.

Now they were just lights. Just photons and metal and electricity and whatever held it all together.

There was a thin strip of powder expertly formed on her kitchen counter. She always did this before a line; thinking about her life, beating herself up until she felt like cocaine was her only reprieve.

The inbox on her phone was full, and she had fifty-seven missed calls and thirty-four voicemails from the past two days. Rachel tried to let people know she was still breathing every two days, because once she'd waited three days and her fathers had ended up in New York City. Once, Santana had even come beating down her door.

She used to cry about all of it, her life's downward spiral, but now she can't even do that.

Rachel wasn't sure if there was even any life left in her.

Still, she picked up her cell phone with feeble hands and started on her list of people to call.

* * *

Santana had never been one for bullshit, and this was the biggest pile of it she'd ever stepped in.

When she'd gotten a friend request on Facebook from "Lucy Fabray" she had her suspicions. Santana knew that Q**** used to despise that name, and the only depth she'd ever assigned to it was that she'd changed a lot, and wanted to forget her old name (to _cleanse herself_, was what she actually said, and Santana remembered thinking she was a little queer for it). Now, she was back to Lucy. What had happened?

Santana never had much restraint with her emotions, and she'd been livid over Q****'s absence for so long she had to let her know.

So, she'd sent her a very long, very not nice message detailing her frustrations. Santana never had much restraint with her words, either. Still, at the end of the message she'd attached her phone number, and a post script. _I hate you, but call me sometime, you deserter bitch._

Santana was usually fast asleep at 4 AM, but tonight there was a nasty thunderstorm, and Brittany was afraid of them. Brittany's arms, already wrapped (a little awkwardly) around Santana, tightened their hold and she felt her soft hair press into her cheek as Brittany buried her face into her shoulder. Groggy but never grumpy, Santana rasped, "What is it, baby...?"

"Lightning," she whimpered, "and I think your cell phone is lighting up."

Santana rubbed at her eyes and fumbled in the darkness for her glasses first, cell phone second. She sat up, and Brittany curled up in her lap. Santana ran her fingers through her hair while she tried to figure out the unknown number.

"Who is it, San?"

"I..." It hit her. "I think it might be Q****, Britts."

* * *

"So it is you."

They'd been best friends, once, and she'd never heard her sound so cold. Lucy wanted to hang up, but opted for chewing through the skin around her thumbnail instead.

"Yes...It's me. Lucy," she affirmed, "I guess I shouldn't say I've missed you." She _had _missed her, but figured it didn't mean much to realize it systematically.

"I wouldn't," Santana cut, "because I'd have some things to say about that."

She tore a long strip of skin away, and the salty, metallic taste of her blood hit her tongue. Lucy was a fragile girl.

"Santana. I called to tell you something important."

"Well, by all means, Q-" Santana started, and Lucy could tell by her tone that she was going to say something bitchy, but she beat her to it.

"_No, not Q_."

There was a long pause at the end of the line; she heard the short, choked sound of someone's words sticking in the back of their throat.

"Okay..._Lucy_. Tell me, then."

* * *

"Rachel, honey, please come home," her Daddy pleaded to her.

"Please, baby, we're so worried about you," her Dad joined in.

Rachel did what she always did when this happened. She inhaled deeply and forced herself to be cheerful, to make up a lie.

"Dads, I'm fine, really. I've just been _super _busy with this musical NYADA is producing. I'm a part of the stage crew, if you can believe it," Rachel knew they wouldn't make a trip to New York City if she wasn't _in _the show. Her lie would hold up.

The line was silent for a few moments, and finally her Dad responded with a weary, "Okay, Rachel."

"Don't let them keep you in the stage crew forever, Rachel. Sometimes stars have to assert themselves, you know Barbra was a fighter." her Daddy added, and she could hear the sadness in his voice. There was shuffling around on the end of the line, and a muffled sob that must have meant that her Dad was holding her Daddy close to him.

"I know, Daddy, I know." Hiram reminded her each time they spoke of Barbra's willpower. She used to look up to her (and Patti Lupone) exclusively; she used to covet that fierceness. Now Rachel looked up to anyone she saw outside of her apartment window that seemed even the least bit happy.

They said their goodbyes, and Rachel stared at the phone for several minutes after they'd hung up. She felt empty. There was a time when she'd cry her eyes out after every phone call with her parents, because she missed them so badly. Now she only ever cried because she missed herself.

Whatever feelings she had were forgotten as soon as her nose met with her counter top.

* * *

Santana was quiet, far too quiet for Lucy to be comfortable. Immediately she wished she hadn't called her at all; she didn't know if she could stand any more negativity over the subject. Certainly, she'd given herself enough hard times over it.

Lucy didn't know who else she could have told, though. Santana had been the only one to message and reach out to her in such a way. She'd been angry, she'd understood that, but because Lucy also understood _Santana_, she knew that her anger meant she still cared.

Now she wasn't so sure. The line remained silent.

Heavy of voice, Santana finally responded,

"I had a missed call from Rachel today. I'll call her tomorrow and tell her about the letter, and I'll leave it up to her whether she wants me to send it her way."

* * *

"Thank you so much, Santana," she said in a voice that was so full of warmth that Santana almost believed things were the same between them. Then, filled with bitterness again, she rid herself of the feeling by delivering a stiff and sarcastic, "Goodbye, _Lucy_."

She hung up her phone and turned it off, in the event that _Lucy _should try to call back. Santana wasn't sure what her mental standing was nowadays, but from their phone call she surmised that she was far from stable.

But now she'd been handed the missing pieces to the Rachel Berry puzzle, one that had bothered her since she'd busted open the door of her apartment only to find Rachel living in a shit hole that smelled of dirty laundry and piss and God-knows-what-else.

She knew she had to do _something _about it, something past relaying _Lucy's _message to Rachel, but she hadn't figured out what yet.

Brittany, still curled up in her lap, awoke from her sleep long enough to speak to her in a voice so tired and childlike that Santana couldn't help but smile despite everything.

"Baby...Whatever it is, can you think about it tomorrow? I dream of being kidnapped by velociraptors every time I fall asleep without your arms around me."

Santana slid back down onto the bed, pulled Brittany close, whispered "I love yous" and stroked her hair until she fell asleep again.

* * *

After hours of agonizing over the letter, Lucy discerned that it would be the most effective as it was. Her feelings were fresh back when she started it, and she was a different person then.

She didn't trust herself anymore.

She folded the letter up and shoved it into an envelope that was almost too small, and it felt sort of metaphorical to her before she realized just how sleepy she was. Lucy addressed the front, stamped it, and sprayed some of her perfume onto it.

It took her several minutes to work up the courage to seal it, and in those minutes her entire life flashed before her, images pouring from every part of her brain and cascading over each other; a discordant mess. She tried to focus on just one. She squeezed her eyes shut and felt the veins in her wrists bulge from her clenched fists and felt her teeth groaning from her clenched jaw.

Then she found it and relaxed.

A five-year-old Rachel ran through her mind, and at her feet grass perked up and flowers blossomed and she saw the Sun bounce off of her chestnut locks. Lucy didn't have to worry about getting caught watching; Rachel stayed in her own world.

They were neighbors. That's where it all started for her; she wondered if Rachel ever knew. Then it hit her, what she had to do, and she reached into her desk drawer and pulled out a new sheet of paper.

For the first time in years, Lucy found herself smiling fully and from the heart, because if she couldn't win Rachel Barbra Berry back with one letter she'd win her back with enough to make a book of their lives and their love. And their loss.

Starting at day one.

* * *

_Dear Rachel,_

_I am begging you to have the restraining order lifted. This is too casual an ending for us, and if it's closure that you want I'm begging you for that too, but only if it's face-to-face._

_Don't be misled, Rachel. I don't want this to be over. I want to see you again (every day) and I want all of those good things for us again, all of the things we used to want together. I am already seeking help. It's hard looking for help in someone so foreign to me. Since high school, you've been the one to drag me out of these things; the only one._

_Please call me, or write me. I'm desperate._

_You keep me hanging on._

_Quinn_

* * *

**A/N: ****If you made it to the end of this, I want to thank you for showing interest in my fanfiction! I haven't published anything in a long time, so I'd love to get positive feedback from this. If you liked it, drop me a line or two! I would greatly appreciate it. If not, thank you anyway for simply reading.**

**I have a lot planned for this story and I am excited to write more!**

**Love,**

**Jordan.**

**P.S. If anyone is curious, the song lyrics at the beginning are from The National's "Secret Meeting." Fantastic band, great song. Give them a listen if you get the chance.**


	2. Chapter One

**White Dragon: Chapter One**

* * *

_The flood will lift the ghosts from_

_the Hollywood lawn cemetery and_

_they will disappear like ether in the_

_new dead air. All the names will be_

_erased from the billboards and the_

_theatres and the piers and the_

_magazines and the monuments._

_You live by myths of immortality,_

_and your myths are not safe._

* * *

It was the middle of the summer in New York City. She purposefully didn't have a calendar in her apartment and she hadn't had a cell phone for months, nor did she watch TV or use her computer ever, but if she had to guess she would've said that it was sometime in mid July when the letter reached her by way of Santana.

As instructed, she'd slipped it under the door. She refused to accept it if Santana insisted on seeing her, and despite Santana worrying herself sick over her (something she'd never admit), she wouldn't injure her pride by begging.

But she'd come all the way from New Jersey to bring the fucking letter and didn't intend to leave without doing _something_. So she wrote a letter of her own that went as such: "I'm not your fucking carrier pigeon, Berry, so don't expect me to make any more trips to escort letters. P.S. Fuck you, you're a deserter bitch too."

Then in smaller, almost illegible scrawl she'd reluctantly added, "Call me if you need anything."

Rachel hadn't expected her reaction to the letter to be so severe. Quinn's letter, that is. Santana's letter had made her smile crookedly.

Quinn's letter made Rachel fall apart before she even opened it. Her dainty scrawl coupled with the scent that she apparently still wore was enough to reduce her to a crying mess. (Quinn always rubbed some of her perfume on her letters; it was something she'd been doing for years now, a subtlety that she knew a romantic of Rachel's caliber would notice and appreciate.)

Hands trembling she unfolded the paper and slid down her front door to her knees. She couldn't read it standing up. It was overwhelming.

Immediately Rachel went through her things and started her response letter. She wrote frantically, but before she finished she'd cried all over it and the ink had smeared incomprehensibly.

* * *

Back when Rachel was in high school, she sometimes liked to pretend that Quinn Fabray wasn't real; that she was just a shadow she'd conjured up in a moment of weakness to remind herself of what she wanted to be. In her head, when others spoke to Quinn it was just a lesson; a reminder that she could do that too, if a figment of her imagination could. When she watched her from afar, everything became a lesson. Rachel, you can be head cheerleader if you tried. Rachel, you can date the star quarterback of the football team if you tried. Or, you could date the resident bad boy of the football team if you tried.

It was easier this way, she found; that is, acting as if Quinn didn't really exist, because she was unfairly blessed with everything Rachel never even knew she wanted until she started high school. Things just didn't happen like that, right?

It was easier, too, because yearning for something intangible didn't exhaust or hurt her so much. She likened Quinn to her aspirations for Broadway. Broadway was always going to be there for when she finally had the means to attain it. So was Quinn, in her perfect world.

Rachel wasn't sure what her inner self meant by attaining Quinn, though. On the one hand, she wanted to be just like Quinn, but on the other, sometimes she found herself shamelessly fantasizing about her while exploring herself. The shame came after, when she'd cooled down from her sessions and was left with an imprint of a naked Quinn Fabray (at least, how she'd imagined her) burned into her brain.

Still, Rachel was content with the illusion she'd created for herself. She didn't have many friends aside from the few kids in the Glee Club she had recently founded, and even they chalked her up to be insufferable. In a way, she was living the life of what she considered a normal high school student vicariously through watching Quinn Fabray, who had many friends and whom she'd convinced herself was an angel of a sort. Sometimes when she was smiling at a boy or at her teammates, a real, _genuine _smile (Rachel had learned to tell the difference), she could have sworn Quinn was floating.

Or maybe it was Rachel with her feet off the ground; it seemed plausible, what with the way her head stayed in the clouds. She drifted through the hallways in a daze, barely focused in her classes (Quinn was in all of them), and only during Glee Club was she able to wake up, because Quinn's presence wasn't felt so harshly there.

It took several weeks before her fellow Gleeks, as they'd been politely dubbed, began to tolerate her; Rachel saw this as a huge success. Her dads had always taught her never to compromise who she was for anyone else, to stay true to her moral fiber, and being obedient and egotistical enough, she'd always done just that. It was her philosophy that if she talked enough, people would eventually care what she had to say, because they either liked what she was saying or because they wanted to satiate her so she'd stop talking.

It was hard to say which it was in the day-to-day cases of everyone in the Glee Club versus her, but they had at least started listening to her.

Mr. Schuester had announced one day that a few of the Cheerios, what the school's cheerleaders were nicknamed, wanted to try out for Glee Club. Initially, the Gleeks had been against it for various reasons.

"Oh _hell_ to the naw, I am _not_ dealing with those stuck-up, preppy bitches in the one place where I can express myself," Mercedes said.

Tina just hissed. Tina sort of scared Rachel.

Artie parroted Mercedes' sentiment, "I don't know if I'd feel comfortable having them here. They're intimidating...Also, that's like seducing the jocks to join too, Mr. Schue, and I think that would be almost as intimidating."

"Jocks won't be that easy to convince," Finn Hudson, their newest member (an utter surprise, especially to Rachel), piped up. He wore a sour expression at all of their meetings and didn't seem to want to be there at all, but while he was there Rachel wasted no opportunity to stare doe-like and adoring at him. He was Quinn Fabray's boyfriend, so that meant he was something special and desirable. Catching Rachel's eye, Finn looked away nervously. That happened a lot.

"I still have a grudge against those girls," Kurt added, also in the 'no' camp, "I wasn't allowed to join their team because Coach Sylvester said I was too delicate to be a bottom and too heavy to be a flier."

"That's silly. You have muscles," Artie chimed.

"She compared me to a porcelain doll, and while I'll admit that I do have beautiful skin, I didn't find it to be a compliment," Kurt said bitterly.

Rachel absorbed all of it. She was caught between staring holes through Finn with her eyes and drilling holes through her head with her thoughts. Having three random Cheerios in the Glee Club couldn't be _too_ detrimental to their cause. In fact, Rachel couldn't think of a single reason why it would be; they would probably garner the attention they so desperately needed if they wanted to boost their numbers and qualify for competitions, and unlike her fellow Gleeks, Rachel welcomed the opportunity to get in good with a few Cheerios, because it meant getting to hear secrets about Quinn.

Somehow, Rachel thought if she heard something terrible about Quinn, it would fix all of the self-esteem issues her existence (pending confirmation) had caused her. It would give her power over Quinn, in a way. Maybe if the gossip was bad enough, she could even dethrone her and take her handsome boyfriend for a spin.

"Everyone," Rachel said emphatically, bouncing from her chair and clapping her hands for effect as she turned to face her fellows, "I know all of you are fully aware that I, Rachel Berry, am _the_ vocal powerhouse of the group, however, as impressive as I am it is an impossibility for me to replicate the number of voices we'd need for group numbers in competitions. Currently among our ranks are six members including myself and our newest member Finn Hudson," she beamed at him and he looked away again with his face scrunched into an expression that resembled someone who had bad gas, "but, if we are to use Mr. Schuester's past Glee Club performances that he so thoughtfully lent to us on cassette as any indication, we are going to need at least nine more members to be considered a threat at competitions-"

"Hold up-" Mercedes started, having just processed the rapid amount of information being flung at her. Something about Rachel being _the_ vocal powerhouse.

"Wait, wait," Rachel interjected, "Let me finish, please and thank you. Ahem.

"While I know that none of you particularly want to see any of the Cheerios in Glee Club, I would care to remind you that they are highly enthusiastic and capable of dancing, which could be a dire asset at performances seeing as none of you are particularly good dancers save myself-"

"What?!" Kurt's eyebrows shot up. He was sincerely offended. The rest of the Gleeks were seething in silence, especially Artie who had understandably taken more offense to the statement than the others.

"Oh, you're fine Kurt," Rachel reassured with a smile and a nod of her head, ignoring everyone else, "My point is, my fellow Gleeks, even though we don't _want _them we _need _them.

"And who knows, maybe they need us, too. Let's not forget what Glee is really about: opening yourself up to joy, and helping others find it, too. Through cheerful song and dance.

"Thank you."

Pleased with her speech, Rachel took her seat and grinned broadly at Mr. Schuester, who acknowledged her efforts with an awkward pat on the shoulder. She was vaguely aware of angry whisperings at the back of the room. Kurt and Mercedes, no doubt; they weren't her biggest fans.

"Um, can we at least know who these girls are?" Finn asked, still dumbfounded that any of the cheerleaders wanted to join such an unfortunate group of people at all.

Mr. Schuester shuffled through the papers on his clipboard until he found the sheet he'd scribbled their names onto. "Let's see here...

"Santana Lopez, Brittany Pierce and...Quinn Fabray. The head cheerleader," Mr. Schuester said curiously. He must've missed it before.

Rachel had been brimming with excitement at the prospect of getting to know some of the more faceless Cheerios and indirectly, Quinn. Already she was devising her schemes to instill loyalty into these girls and use them as her spies; she thought that the promise of an autograph when she was famous would do for bribery, and certainly they'd go for it after they heard her rendition of "Don't Rain on My Parade" that she'd been rehearsing since she was eight. She had that floating feeling again, and she felt less and less in the now and more and more in a daze the longer her thoughts of plotting and Quinn and _plotting against _Quinn lingered undisturbed.

Then Mr. Schuester's words sunk right through her brain and ended somewhere in the pit of her stomach. Most of the Gleeks met the news with suspicious glances amongst themselves, except for Finn and Rachel whose jaws both dropped simultaneously.

Rachel suddenly felt very anxious to the point of nausea and very much like irony's latest victim.

* * *

Quinn and her Cheerio lackies took an instant dislike to one flabbergasted Rachel Berry. Instead of encouraging a unity in the Glee Club that would potentially transcend to the entire school, they actively discouraged it.

During meetings, the three of them, the Unholy Trinity if you will, stayed off to the side of everyone else and only interacted with Mr. Schuester directly. Other times they only spoke up if one of the Gleeks (they thoroughly enjoyed this term as soon as they'd heard it from Rachel, and they turned it into something cruel whereas Rachel had found it endearing before) said something stupid, and even then they never made eye contact with any of them.

Rachel, as it turned out, had a lot of things to say that they deemed stupid. Basically everything she said inspired disgust in the Cheerios, and she was visibly stricken by the fact that they, Quinn mostly, were screwing up her perfect plan.

Even Kurt and Mercedes began to pity her, and that meant it was _bad_.

"Hey, Rachel," Kurt said to her one day after an especially brutal practice where Quinn had almost made her cry, "Don't let it get to you, okay? You're obnoxious and really annoying on the surface, but most of us know that you do mean well."

"Yeah, girl. What he said. Don't let those bitches bring you down to their level. Just keep showing 'em you're better than that," Mercedes conceded, "and yeah, you're a huge pain in my ass nine times out of ten, especially over solos, but you are a sweet person deep down underneath all that ego."

Rachel sniffled. They were sort of nice things to say, and sounded a lot like things _friends _would say. "Thanks, you guys."

They gave her half-hugs around her shoulders and left her standing in the hallway wondering if maybe having the Cheerios around to beat up on her was such a bad thing.

* * *

A week into the _love affair _that was the Cheerios and the Glee Club, the Cheerios had successfully crushed all hopes Rachel had of attaining Finn Hudson and the head cheerleading position and any semblance of popularity, and frankly, Rachel wondered how she had deluded herself into thinking any of it was possible in the first place.

Santana and Brittany as a duo was bad, but Quinn outscored them by leaps and bounds. Unlike her comrades, Quinn seemed to have something personal against Rachel, something she couldn't work out for the life of her. She'd spoken to Finn a few times, and all of it was completely harmless. Unless she could read her thoughts, Rachel didn't see why Quinn should hate her as much as she did.

Quinn had a plethora of names in her armada to use against Rachel, ranging from the name of an eclectic drag queen to less creative names like "That _Thing_." Somehow the less creative ones hurt more.

Along with name-calling, Rachel got slushied on two occasions during the week (a step up from her one-a-week record), courtesy of Quinn's cronies. Still she persisted, clenched her teeth and balled her hands into fists and held her head high, all the while thinking of her dads' and how proud they were of her for staying strong.

The pornographic drawings were the last and weirdest straw. Later that night, she had a melt down and swore she wouldn't mind if Quinn fell from the planet or at least into relative obscurity at McKinley, so she'd know how it felt.

And yet, ill will, bitterness and all, nothing could have prepared her for Quinn's eventual fall from grace, or for her very impassioned and visceral reaction to it.

* * *

"Pregnant," Rachel repeated slowly, as if she'd never tasted the word on her tongue before. It was a foreign concept to her, in truth; her fathers never discussed pregnancy for obvious reasons, and their only attempt to breach the topic came in the form of an awkward coming-of-age book (something about _Your Body_ and _the Weird Stuff It's Doing Now_) they'd slipped under her door one day.

Kurt nodded and clicked his teeth. "Tsk, tsk, tsk..."

"They say it's Finn's," Mercedes whispered. Rachel had never known Mercedes to be much of a whisperer, so that helped the magnitude of the situation set in.

"Obviously," Rachel found herself jumping to Quinn's defense, "Who else's would it be?"

Kurt and Mercedes exchanged dubious looks. Kurt spoke first, "Rachel, hon, are you okay? You look pale."

Mercedes waved her hands in front of Rachel's face and received no significant response.

Rachel blinked a few times, robotically almost. Her expression stayed blank while her (unreliable) internal processor tried to compute the word.

Pregnant.

Quinn Fabray was pregnant.

Pregnant was Quinn Fabray.

"Excuse me," she said when she recovered from her trance. Rachel took the opportunity to set off to collect her books and go to her first period class, where she knew Quinn would be waiting before the bell.

* * *

Quinn wasn't there early, and as the minutes ticked by she knew that Quinn wasn't there at all.

Rachel couldn't focus for the rest of the day. She bit all of her fingernails off, the ones she'd slaved so hard over to make them perfect and adorable and polka-dotty. It wasn't a good sign when Rachel's worries were more important to her than her appearance.

She didn't know what to do, but she knew she had to do something. Already there were cruel rumors around the school, linking Quinn to everyone from Finn to Mr. Schuester to Principal Figgins; even Santana and Brittany had joined in on the gossip during Glee Club, and that made Rachel feel even worse. Who did Quinn have left? Her so-called best friends were already planning to uproot her from the cheerleading squad.

Rachel decided to see all of her teachers again before she left the school to collect the work Quinn missed. After a bit of prying, she was able to find out where she lived and everything.

She was going to be there for Quinn Fabray, dammit, even if she had to annoy a friendship out of her.

* * *

_Dear Rachel,_

_I was horrible to you from the moment I met you, and I am so sorry if you ever remember me in that way. I know I have said it and written it an infinite amount of times before, but I am sorry for that. I have no explanation, other than that I think I was resisting you from the first time I saw you because I just sort of knew. You had this energy about you that I could feel that I was lacking and it was attractive and repellent at the same time and all I could do was hate you for it._

_But do you know what? You were the first person to see me for me, and I remember the day you did. You brought me my homework._

_I haven't stopped thinking about you since then._

_Lucy_

* * *

**A/N: Long time no see, I know. I have been busy and battling with personal issues for several months now, but I have had this draft on my computer for a while now and I decided to go ahead and publish it to see if anyone is still reading.**

**Beginning poem is by street artist Robert Montgomery.**

**Again, thank you for the support.**

**Love, Jordan.**


End file.
